Thursday, January 24, 2013

This wacky winter in South Dakota
has resourceful prairie people doing supermodel quick-changes—stripping off the
down and woolies, then piling on 17 layers, then trying to coordinate Bermuda
shorts with thermal turtlenecks. Last week, in the middle of January, it was 53
degrees. Over the weekend, Ray was shoveling snow and the wind chill got down
to -25. My friend Bee calls it South Dakota’s “bipolar meteorological
disorder.” Seriously, South Dakota…get some help.

Knit Brain Hat in Progress

Here on the Row, we’re busy with
winter chores. Sinclair Lewis wrote, “Winter is not a season, it's an
occupation.” Absotively true, and no one knows it better than SoDakians, except
maybe Arctic tundra-dwellers. Take our wood stove, for example. It’s so
romantic, right? that lovely warm glow? iron kettle of water on top—cinnamon,
cloves & orange peel filling the house with steamy, spicy perfume? sleeping
cat curled up on a sheepskin in front of the stove? Sigh…makes me wanna churn
some butter. But I’m not sure Ray’s feeling the romance right now. Right now,
mid-winter, that stove is Ray’s part-time job. Chop the wood. Split the wood.
Carry the wood. Make a fire. Stoke the stove. Clean the stove. Dump the ash.
Repeat. All. Winter. Long. I remember getting my first wood stove back in the
70’s. I was so thrilled. But my buzz-kill grandma said, “Why would you want
something we couldn’t WAIT to get rid
of?” I figured she was just too old to get it. O youthful arrogance…

Pom-Pom Hat

Stocking the pantry is another
winter occupation. Hearty prairie folk know how to “put food by.” Deeply
ingrained in our psyche is the primordial walrus-like instinct to pack on blubber.
And in the back of our minds we know that at any moment, the grocery store
might be on the other side of a blizzard, just out of reach.

So we’re doing our usual winter panicky
pathological food-hoarding. My sky-high triglycerides, revealed in a recent health
screening, have us eating boat-loads of fresh tuna and salmon. (New research
suggests that triglycerides, more than HDL or LDL cholesterol, are a risk
factor for stroke and heart disease. It now seems I had EVERY stroke risk
factor known to modern medicine. Sheesh.) Our freezer is full of organic
grass-fed beef, lamb, and Bambi’s cousin. I keep a giant container of cooked
blackeyed peas in the fridge now, which I add to everything, since it’s the
single best food for lowering tri’s. Kale is also good for lowering tri’s, so
I’m making kale chips, kale smoothies, and wilted kale with blackeyed peas. I
make huge batches of rainbow quinoa and bulgur tabhouli, which we snack on for
days. The pantry is full of canned peaches, tomatoes, applesauce, and pickled
jalapenos. We could live on nothing but homemade jam from now till spring. We
have homemade wine a’plenty, and I have several pounds of decaf Sumatra beans
in the freezer, so we can keep our fluids topped-off and balanced as we wait
out this nasty cold. We’re not quite as obsessive about stocking our larder as the
spinster sisters in Kit Reed’s short story, “Winter,” but we’re close…wandering
strangers, beware.

Blackeyed Pea Salad, Tabhouli, Kale & Parsnip Chips

Another of our winter jobs is
keeping our peacocks alive. We’re holding steady at two males and two females.
In spite of reported sightings, the rest of the flock never returned after last
summer’s drought and predator infestation. So we’re giving our micro-flock
every advantage we can (short of bringing them inside and knitting them
sweaters). They’re feasting on dry cat food, dried corn, black oil sunflower
seed, and occasional boiled eggs (mashed, shell and all). Giving them eggs might
seem cannibalistic, but they need the extra fat in this brutal cold. Ray hasn’t
put brooding lights up in the loafing shed rafters yet, but I’m sure that’s
coming.

Peacock Power-Nap

When I’m not grading student essays
(ALWAYS a winter occupation) or
having fun with food, I’m practicing another cottage industry: knitting. Two family
members are cooking up new babies, so I dug out scrumptious angora yarn, and
kitty hats will be underway soon. I recently sorted my yarn stash, so I’m also
making colorful striped silly hats with bits of leftover texture-y yarns for
next year’s Christmas stash.

Keep the Home Fires Burning!

When Sinclair Lewis said winter was
an occupation, I think he was talking about the work it takes to survive the
weather. But out here on the northern plains—land of vitamin D deprivation,
cabin fever, and Seasonal Affective Disorder—I think we keep busy so we won’t
turn on each other. Keep stoking that stove, folks, and bring in some more
kindling...

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Last time I was in Omaha, stomping grounds of my youth, I didn’t see a single person I knew. Then I realized
I was searching the faces of 18-year-olds. Duh. I’m in my 50’s now, and if the
Universe works the way I think it does, my old cronies would be in their 50’s,
too.

As it turns out, my time-warp may
not be vanity or delusion. In my post-stroke research, I came across this
theory: because neurons don’t “mature,” we often feel (internally, at least) younger
than we really are, usually young adult-ish. This explains why we’re so shocked
when we see that old person in the mirror—the one with the road-map wrinkies,
the liver spots (is that one shaped like the a jackalope?), and the swinging basset-hound
jowls.

What I Really Look Like

But BS was a giant bucket of ice
water that woke me from my illusion of youth. I went back to work half-time
last week (I teach English at our Little Town university), after being home
since October. My kind and generous department Chair had bent over backward to
help me ease back in—I have two back-to-back 50-minute classes on MWF and TTh
at home for rest. And both classes are in the same room, so I don’t have to
drag Leftie the Leg around campus. Two short hours in class, three days a week
in the same room. Cake, right?

What My Brain Thinks I Look Like

Wrong. Immediately, BS reminded me
that I am notmy former 18-year-old superhuman self. In fact, Day 1 of class was like
having an energy suck-meter in my head: Stay upright. Tick. Keep your
left leg from drifting away from your body. Tick. Focus both eyes on the same
thing. Tick. What the hell is that word you just said? Tick. Don’t you dare drop these handouts. Tick. Stay
awake. Tick. Act like everything’s normal.
Tick. Breathe. Tick. And, while all of this is going on inside my head, I’m
also trying to get 44 skeptical late-teeners excited about literature.
Ticktickticktick…

Let’s do the math, shall we? Clunky muscles
and body’s uncertain position in space + awkward “tipping” (BS damaged my sense
of balance) + attempt to foist love of words on kids who would rather text
pics of their new UGGs + a month of course prep + high anxiety over going back
to work = crash & burn. I was sound
asleep in my La-Z-Girl by 8 p.m. the first night of classes. I woke up at 11 to go to bedand slept till 8 the
next morning. Dang near comatose.

What I Really Look Like

But yesterday, Day 2 of classes, things
were a little easier. I felt a little less brain-scrambled and more relaxed in
class, I didn’t drop anything, I had a decent (slow as molasses) workout after
school, and I stayed awake last night till 10 p.m.! Ah, hope endureth! I just have
to be patient. I have to trust I’ll get steadily stronger. I have to get better
at asking for help. I have to be more honest with myself and others about the
extent of BS’s malicious tinkering (yes, dammit, my speech and word recall were
affected). I have to remember that I’m not 18. I have to admit it isn’t “One Toke
Over the Line, sweet Jesus” anymore—it’s one stroke over the line. Sweet. Fricking. Geezus. ;)

Sunday, January 6, 2013

I have crocheted since I was a kid,
but I re-discovered knitting in my 40’s, when I bought a silly hand-knit
dreadlock hat from a Peruvian woman in Minneapolis and wanted to copy the
pattern. I love the feel of wool—I have a terribly neglected spinning wheel and
a huge stash of raw silk, as well as sheep, alpaca, and even some camel wool I
could be spinning into gorgeous yarns. I’ll get started on that as soon as I
can fit into my Sleeping Beauty dress & gauntlets again.

Joe's & Masha's Tassel Hats

In the meantime, I have two baskets
beside my chair. I keep one filled with balls/skeins of every conceivable weight,
texture, and color of yarn. The other holds my current knitting projects; I
usually have at least two going, so I don’t get bored. I’m already stockpiling
next year’s Christmas presents. I’m also building a stash of baby hats for any family/friend
new arrivals who pop out next year, and for my amazing sister-in-law, who does
mission work in Haiti twice a year and takes baby hats to new Haitian moms (you
can donate to this local organization by going to http://www.helpinghandsforhaiti.com/donate).

BS Brain Hat, in progress

I’ve always felt like knitting
allows me to sit around and watch bad TV, guilt-free, without my grandma’s “idle
hands are the devil’s workshop” ringing in my slightly-addled brain (I don’t
believe in the devil, but I DO believe in my grandma's ability to come
back from the Great Beyond and give me SUCH
a scolding). And since BS, knitting has also been providing me with two other
essential functions: Occupational therapy and mindfulness practice.

Handwarmers, Tassel Hat, Dreadlock Hat

When I first got home from the
hospital, knitting was painfully slow. I didn’t have much fine-motor control on
my left side, so even holding a knitting needle was rough. But I stuck with it.
Mom and I watched movies and knitted simple square dishrags. As my brain
re-routed, knitting got easier. Shucks…I’d wager the knitting actually helped my brain forge new neural
pathways. And it was waaaay more
interesting than raising my arms to shoulder-level three times, which was one
of the THREE exercises a therapist gave me on my ONE visit; the other two were
to touch my nose with my left index finger, and to lift my left leg from a
seated position (I never went back to “therapy”). In fact, everything about
knitting was stimulating for my struggling brain and my clunky left
side—feeling the yarn, winding skeins into balls on a nostepinde, coordinating colors, choosing needles, and the knitting
itself. And finishing a project helped me see that I was making progress not
just in my hat stash, but also in my stroke recovery.

Crystal's Tassel Hat

I also discovered that I could turn
knitting into meditation. Sans the bad TV, I could sit in a quiet room and
simply be aware of the knitting—the feel of the yarn, the clickety-clack of my
bamboo needles, the repetitive motion of yarning-over, the patient progress of
adding one stitch at a time to a whole. I could practice not letting my mind
wander beyond the knitting itself, not running scenarios in my head of the past
or possible futures, not having imaginary conversations with a bill collector,
not righting imaginary wrongs. I could practice being present—just keeping my
attention on the knitting. It was/is incredibly peaceful and
healing...therapeutic.

Super Sunny Handwarmers

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not just idling,
burning patchouli incense and developing “knitter’s spread”—that
Laz-y-Girl-shaped arse with its bulgy cushion of Doritos’ fat. I’m doing other
kinds of therapy, as well: Baking, cooking, dishes, laundry, Christmas prep and
cleanup, dog-walking, going to the gym, and getting ready for school (I go back
to teaching half-time next week). But whenever I get a chance, you’ll find me
cranking out another knitting project. Because every three-cornered wool clown
hat improves my hand-eye coordination, stills my racing Type-A mind, and makes
this a warmer, happier world.